


May 5th, 1978

by BlindSwandive



Series: Masquerade fills [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: But John is kind of weird, Car Sex, Dirty Talk, F/M, Fantasies of dehumanization, Impregnation, Internalized Gender Issues, Possessiveness, Pregnancy Kink, Signs and Symptoms of Ovulation, Way too many references to barnyard animals, impreg kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 14:48:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16139480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlindSwandive/pseuds/BlindSwandive
Summary: For the 2018 SPN Masquerade prompt:John knocks Mary up in the backseat of the Impala. Dirty talk about getting her in the family way much appreciated.





	May 5th, 1978

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize in advance if this does not look like your version of impregnation/pregnancy kink. It came out a little... I don't even know what. Neither/nor, somehow. Feedback is always welcome, but um. Be gentle, please.
> 
>  _The Thorn Birds_ had been on the NY Tiles Best Seller list for about 50 weeks by the time Dean would have been conceived, having spent 15 weeks at number 1 the previous year.

It was _The Thorn Birds_ that did it. Well—that and a long drive in that sweet Impala, the way she purred and the whole bench seat just kind of rumbled beneath them. But a too-loved copy of _Thorn Birds_ had been making its way around the neighborhood, and when a couple hundred pages in the heroine finally made it with the object of her forbidden lust, wives up and down the block had been catching pregnant like it was the flu.

Mary was wearing it like a halo, she was sure, like there were some giant neon sign with big arrow pointing at the snug seat of her jeans, proclaiming just how hot and bothered she was. She felt flushed and distracted all the time, now. 

John seemed to have noticed; he was on her whenever they had a minute alone, lately, pawing at her while she tried and failed to cook, sneaking home filthy on his lunch breaks to throw her over the dining room table and smear her with engine grease.

She'd gone almost the whole spring without considering leaving him, which was probably a new record, and so with one thing and another, when he asked if she wanted to take a drive, late Friday night, she'd read his intention on him like it was clear as her neon sign and she'd said, "What the hell. Let's do it."

And now that beautiful beast was growling under her, and she felt lust-dazed and stupid with it. She curled up under John's arm, and barely contained the whim to open his jeans right there on the road, because if she gave him head behind the wheel he wouldn't screw her brains out when they stopped. She could be just a little more patient, for that.

***

Janice. It was Janice's fault.

Janice was the secretary at the garage, where John worked. She was married, and (not-so) secretly screwing their boss on the side, and one or the other of her studs had got her in the family way. She'd never done much for John before—he liked a rough and tumble gal with wild hair and wilder eyes, and Janice was every inch the magazine girl with sculpted hair and perfect makeup and a slick polyester wardrobe. Sure, he'd snuck more than a few looks down her backside when she'd bent to change the paper or toner in the copier or rifle through files, but it had been casual and easy, not with any real heat or intent.

But then one day she'd brushed by too close, and there was something different. Some—some ineffable scent, something in the guarded way she was sidling herself through the office, and he'd watched her like a hawk from then out.

It was another month before he was sure, but then her skin-tight polyester started to distort on her, her breasts and her belly just so slightly swollen, fattening with life and the mark of having been had and claimed in the deepest way possible. There was a glow on her, and yeah, that was a cheap stereotype but there was something to it—her skin was bright, her eyes were brighter, even her hair was shinier.

It put John in mind of hot harvest months, of everything feeling full to bursting, of women with leaking breasts, heavy as the earth, heaving with life in labor. He felt wild as a hare in spring, and the need to get Mary with child was beginning to consume his every waking thought. Every cap he screwed down, every pipe he nudged into place, every bolt he turned, he was burrowing into her body indelibly, leaving his mark on her very bones.

Mary was game most days, though she was still generally nudging her diaphragm up into place first, but the last few days she'd gotten hot and quiet, something in the sway of her hips daring him to pounce. She was stiff in public, if they went out for a drink or something to eat, and men were eyeing her even more than usual (with no idea what they'd be getting into if they laid an unthinking paw on her), but once they got home, she was loose and liquid, eyes always half-lidded and lips parted. She smelled like sex and like want, some fallow field in the sun begging to be plowed. He didn't know how he knew she was fertile, but he did, knew it like birds knew which way to fly in winter.

John hid her diaphragm in the wrong drawer in the bathroom and asked her if she wanted to go for a drive.

***

Once Mary's hand had slid over the bulge in John's jeans, they pulled off the road more or less by silent agreement. John turned them off into a field, abandoned in the dark, and cut the engine.

Before he could so much as turn to kiss her, Mary had thrown the door open gracelessly and was climbing into the back seat, kicking off her boots and shimmying out of her jeans. John had to fight not to fire off right then, still in his pants. He dove out his own door and chased after her, landing on her heavily enough that he almost knocked the wind out of them both.

"Mary," he mumbled, numb and feverish, mouthing on her neck like a lost infant. "Got any idea how crazy you been making me?"

"Yeah?" she huffed, wrestling a little under him to get her shirt off. "How crazy?" 

He fell on her breasts and sucked, sighing hot against her.

Mary groaned quietly, trying to snug him up closer against her body. She needed pressure and friction, and she needed it now.

John was still mostly dressed, and there was a strange unevenness in that. Mary felt exposed, even if she was more or less wearing him as a blanket; the rough denim and soft flannel were rubbing into her skin, setting her nerves off in confused little charges. 

John felt all-powerful for it, big and tough and in charge in a way that Mary (who could beat him in a fight on her worst day) rarely left him feeling. He didn't usually resent her power (much), any more than he resented her inability to cook worth a damn, her generally lacking gentleness and femininity, or any of the other things about her that rubbed his own inadequacies in his face daily, but… well, there was definitely something to be said for the feeling that, in this moment, in this place, he was some mad alpha male who could bite her throat, and she would lay down and open up for him.

"Like a bitch in heat," he mumbled, deliriously, against her neck. 

John realized he'd said it out loud about the time she stiffened under him, and he prepared to be kneed or kicked bodily out of the car. He thanked God he was at least _between_ her knees, already, and she wouldn't be able to kick him between his. At least, not right away.

But Mary didn't kick him. Mary felt the smooth leather under her back, smelled that incomparable smell, and something else—something innate to John, when he was like this, animal and needy—and she couldn't care. "Yeah," she whispered, pulling his head to get his mouth back down to her breasts. "Think I'm in heat," she agreed, her skin flushed and breaking out in sweat. "Christ, John, get inside me."

It was John's turn to groan. He didn't hesitate.

It was awkward working his pants when they were overfilled like this, but when he got the zipper (carefully) pulled down, and got himself out of his underwear, it was sweetest relief. But nothing compared to the feeling of, after he'd more or less destroyed Mary's panties trying to get them out of his way, sinking in deep in one hard, determined thrust.

"Yes!" Mary hissed, "Christ, John, yes…"

John thought his blood was going to boil him alive. He grabbed at one of her legs, digging his fingers into her thigh for leverage. "Mary," he said, desperate, and again, "Mary…"

Mary arched under him, and for a a half an instant it looked to John like she was swelling at the belly, already filling up with him. He started to rut like a bull.

"Gonna' let me knock you up?" John asked on wild impulse, then shook his head like a horse. No; that was wrong. Don't ask—tell. "Gonna' knock you up," he growled, "get you big as a cow."

Mary elbowed him lightly for that, but somehow didn't have the urge to tell him off. Something about that glint in his eyes, that feral way he was driving into her. He was animal, not quite human; animals bred in fields like this, succumbed to nature and the seasons. No blame in that.

"Want that?" John asked, curling down to mouth at her breasts. "Want to be fat and full of milk, carrying my seed down in your belly?"

"Yeah," Mary said, and was surprised to find that, at least at that moment, she meant it. "Yeah, baby, yeah…"

John buried his arms under her, pressing her belly up into his. "Get you all swollen, full of child—coming apart—can't wait," he rattled on, "see you bleed through your shirts, suck you dry…"

"Gotta' save some for the baby," Mary scolded, without even a hint of reproach. "Your baby in my belly," she murmured, picturing it, warm and dizzy. She brushed over one of her own breasts, tenderly, already imagining them heavy and sore.

John could only think of her stretched out past capacity, so big it would be hard for her to even walk, those sweet breasts pushing her shirts out so they gapped between the buttons fighting to stay closed. He thought of her covered in sweat and panting in dim light, in some barn in the straw, calving like an animal while he pawed the ground like a predator, ready to tear apart anything that dared get near her or his spawn.

"Gonna' have to keep letting me in when you catch," he breathed, "not gonna' be able to stay away." 

Mary nodded eagerly.  "Every night," she promised, even if she was sure she'd make it a lie eventually.  

"'Til then," John sighed around a nipple, "every night, every morning..."

"Lunchtime," Mary added, rocking her hips up.  "Come home, get me covered in grease..."

He could see that--a handprint on her calf, her breast, her ass, written in engine oil, proof of ownership.  "All the time, 'til I know you're carrying my baby," John said fiercely, trembling with the strain.  "'Til anyone who sees you knows I bred you like a sow."

Mary winced--the barn animal thing, that was... She shook it off.  Whatever; boys from Indiana were bound to think in barnyard metaphors.  Anyway, one of the women in her book was pregnant nonstop, just one baby after another, practically living on her back.  Something about that...

"How many you want?" she whispered hungrily into his ear.  "Gonna' keep me barefoot and pregnant in your kitchen for a while, farmboy?" she asked, and she tried to make it sultry, but it sounded so silly she laughed instead, breathless and giddy.

"Forever," John growled, and the laugh died in her throat.  The raw possessiveness shot a hot thrill right into her belly.  "One after another," he panted, echoing her thought, "barely let you out of the hay long enough to stand up, get you with child again just the second I can."

John was going mad.  He was certain.  That this was coming out of his mouth at all...  It was one thing for it to parade behind his eyes, but Mary was a bit of a you-know-what (started with an "f-e-m-" and ended with mass male castration) and he knew better than to let his inner jarhead out too much around her.  Hell, she'd punched him right across the jaw, once, when he'd introduced her to a friend as "his woman," and warned him if he ever did it again she'd go for his balls; it was part of what had made him fall so hard for her.  But Christ if it didn't sound like she was goading him on.

"Be a big family," she said, in a daze.

"Big as we can make it," John agreed, drunk on the thought of her fertile and full without end.  He suckled a breast and could almost taste the milk, rich and yellow as the cream at the top of the bottle.

Mary slid a hand down her belly, between her legs.  She was so close already but she never had figured out how to make that final leap without a helping hand.  John was pretty good about the foreplay, usually, or batting cleanup afterwards, but this was too fast, too brittle and bright, and she wanted it just like that, tonight, just like that.  She gripped the leather beneath her with the other hand, and it slid with sweat and the rough ride.  

"Mary," John managed to croak out, and that was all, crashing to a stuttering halt.  He managed a few wild spasms, after, and Mary chased after him, clutching at him inside of her while he was still mostly hard.  She was almost ready to give up (and maybe punch something in frustration) when John rallied enough to push up onto his knees, sliding his arms down under her hips to raise them off the seat.

He wasn't letting any of that seed spill out of her.

The thought was so filthy, so _much,_ that she came, kicking and yowling like a cat.  

John winced, more from the shinbone in his armpit than the volume, but she looked so perfect, hips up and twitching, that he didn't care; he knew everything was pooling up, inside of her, waiting for a chance to make it up inside her womb, and he translated each shake in her belly to those precious internal motions, could just imagine the life from inside of him forcing its way in around every minute dilation like an invading army through the battlements.  

Mary caught her breath first, and gave him a light shove.  "Sick son of a bitch," she said, but without feeling.  And John noticed she showed no signs of leaving the incline he'd made for her.

John was, on the whole, encouraged.  With great care, like she were a boiling pot of stew that might go over, he lifted her hips just a little higher until he could get his knees up under them, kneeling on the seat.  He settled her back down tenderly onto his lap, and she picked up one of her feet, laying it lazily and fondly over his shoulder, letting the weight of her leg rest back against the seat.

Mary's arms stretched overhead, slow and gratified, and she looked happy as the cat with the cream.  John couldn't help it--he laid one big palm flat over her belly, pushed down just enough for her to feel the pressure.

"Think it took?" he asked.  The hot, damp skin of her bottom and thighs felt delicious over his groin, and he thought he might be able to go again, if she said no.  He prayed silently that she would say no.

Mary licked her lips and considered it.  

"One way to make sure."

**Author's Note:**

> A study about a decade ago suggested women actually swing their hips LESS while walking when they're ovulating, possibly to try to reduce attention from less preferable potential mates. Increased temperature, ...viscosity..., and libido are all common while ovulating. And every five or ten years another study confirms that even human men can more or less sniff out ovulation. You're welcome.


End file.
